


a touch of memory

by mako_lies (wingeddserpent)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bodyswap, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10514028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/mako_lies
Summary: When the Prince feels Monica up, it’s really just the start of her problems.Or: Monica switches bodies with that Argentum kid the Prince likes so much and takes the opportunity to gather plenty of intel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains references to canonical prejudice against immigrants, illusions to child experimentation, one scene of mistaken-identity groping, and implications of past self-harm and eating disorders. 
> 
>  
> 
> Spoilers for Prompto's backstory. Implied Noctis/Prompto.

Monica had never been to Insomnia prior to signing up for the Crownsguard. She grew up in one of those outland cities. One of the ones the King got briefed on at length, whose fate got concluded with one breath of ‘ _ahbut’tisunfortunate.’_ The attention then turned inevitably, necessarily, to ending the war and the new daemon crisis. Ever silent and vigilant, Monica stood at the edge.

Generally (as she had been told many many times by the Crowsguard) the Crown City was safe. Probably the safest place in the world, which was the whole point. It was becoming a less bitter pill to swallow, probably. Still, crime wasn’t unheard of. It wasn’t wholly surprising to feel the slide of a hand in her back pocket. Most people wouldn’t dare when she was in her blacks, but stupid people were everywhere.

More surprising that the hand cupping her ass felt familiar enough her body _relaxed._ She _relaxed._ She kicked herself into gear—she hadn’t needed Cor’s training in this area. With more force than she might have otherwise she struck down the offender in one solid blow. Damn the consequences. A refugee? Causing a scene in the Palace? How scandalous. That was why they should only be Glaives—she could hear the complaints now.

Monica’s head spun. Everything looked _wrong_. The colors all twisted off-shade. Perhaps her cold was affecting her more than she had thought? “Prom? What?” Dazed, cheek already purpling, the Prince stared up at her from his untidy sprawl. Her heart caught in her throat like bile. Two months officially in the Guard, after years of working—after Cor had taken such a chance on her after she hadn’t shown aptitude enough for the Glaives. After the King himself had given her a role in intelligence. The kid from the outlands that politicking had failed. The kid who hadn’t enough magick to join the Glaives with the other refugees. The first non-native Guard in nearly ten years. And now she had laid hands upon the Prince. Monica reached down to pull the Prince to his feet. “Prince Noctis…” her voice sounded strange as she felt. “This behavior is most unbecoming.” Scolding. He had committed the crime, but if they were to match his words against his, she saw no chance. She’d have to tell the King, and pray he understood.

Her head throbbed as the rain slicked her hair to her face. When had she come outside? When had the Prince snuck up on her to play his foolish, insulting, damaging prank?

(Something about this didn’t add up. Nothing about this added up. The hair on her nape rose—she hadn’t gone into intelligence because she was unobservant. Mayhap she should have listened when Cor had told her to rest. But she’d insisted, and now she’d sent the Prince to the ground.)

The Prince scrambled to his feet without grace. “Very funny. I know, I know. Not so close to the Palace. But did you _really_ have to hit me? It hurts, dude.”

 

Cor often claimed over drinks that he chose her for the Guard because of her “quick-thinking” and “adaptable spirit.” Two or three more drinks in, he’d admit it was because he’d been impressed by the makeshift barricade and her desperate spread of MT wreckage. She’d beat the MTs down with nothing except the metal leg of a desk but not quick enough. Lost most of her block. The barricade that they had erected had helped at least a handful of them survive to the rescue that the Crown City had only grudgingly provided. They hadn’t even sent the Glaives—or maybe it had just been Cor tired of sitting around with his thumbs up his ass. It was always hard to tell with Cor. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the Glaives for being outsiders, he claimed. Just that he hated waiting around while other people fought his battles. Cor’d helped when nobody else had.

A hero made of her, that tasted of the ash left when an MT blew. At least until they discovered she didn’t have that special aptitude to roll with the King’s magick, beyond the summoning.

She suspected that if he let himself drink more, he would have admitted that he took her on because he recognized it in her. That hatred of letting other people fight her battles. Her inability to sit on her hands. Or maybe it had been the way she had looked at him and asked, “Why didn’t they send help when we asked for it?” Biting, but without any real energy behind it.

 

As far as ‘adaptable spirit’ went, the most Monica could say of herself now was that she didn’t scream. She wasn’t herself. It wasn’t a comment on how out of sorts she felt.

Lanky, lithe figure. Wrong center of balance. Poured on jeans. Clunky boots. Belt with a purple skull. Fingerless gloves. Calluses in the wrong places. Bandana at the wrist. Definitely not her Crownsguard kit.

This had to be that kid the Prince was so fixated on. Argentum? Something like it.

Her head spun and she reached out to grasp the wall before she fell. How in the Six had this happened?

“Prince Noctis,” she said, and now she could hear the creak of Argentum’s voice. Puberty, again? “We must speak with your father immediately. If you would please accompany me.” She hated to wait once she saw her goal, but these civilian feet tripped up almost immediately, sending her sprawling. Dignity hurt more than the body.

The Prince crouched next to her. “Uh—Prom? Are you feeling okay? You seem kinda weird, dude. Why would you need to talk to my dad, anyway? Thought he scared you…”He held a hand out to her, and she felt herself stretch for it, touch lingering even after he’d pulled them both up. Her heart picked up, fondly, and oh—oh she had no idea about the two of them. Monica felt herself fluster with proximity.

“It will be easier for me to explain once we get there. Please, come.” It would be simpler to explain this insanity once, rather than twice.

With the silence the papers attributed to him, the Prince followed. The third time his hands came up to stop her from stumbling, and pleasure welled up at his touch, she came to a full stop. “Prince Noctis.” She frowned. How to put this without causing harm? “We’re in the Palace. Hands?”

“Ah. Right. Um. Of course. Sorry, Prom…” He scratched the back of his head, his mouth pursed in confusion and hurt.

When next she stumbled, it was by her own power she kept her feet. The Prince reached for her by habit—only to pull back at the last second. Evidently it was the boy’s clumsiness and not her own.

It had to be more than wearing the boy’s skin. A lifetime of memory fizzled beneath. In the way she walked (and the difficulties therein). In the way the body heated under the gaze of the Prince. In the way she’d had to press back the body’s instincts to instill her own. Her hand (his hand?) hurt still from the strike. Obviously unused to such contact.

If this was the boy’s body, where, then, was hers?

 

Awaiting them in the throne room. Monica watched herself throw her hands spiritedly toward the ceiling. “I’m telling you! It’s me! Prompto! Prompto! I’m totally not Monica at all. I mean, look at me! Or, don’t look at me! Please, you gotta listen to me!”

The King frowned as he watched Prompto-Monica shift anxiously from one foot to another. A habit she herself had culled mercilessly. “Majesty, as absurd as it sounds, I’m afraid he is correct.” She stepped forward.

Prince Noctis choked as though he were dying behind her. “Monica…? Not—Oh. _Oh_.” She turned just to catch him color. “But that’s—Dad, there’s no way that they could really—could they?” He came to stand beside Prompto-Monica. The Prince stared at her body, brows furrowed, face darkening further.

Had the King been too distracted of late to realize where his son’s affections had landed? It was surprising. While the Prince was well-regarded, the tabloids made frequent mention of his less than sociable attitude. And his friend, Prompto?, wasn’t exactly an obvious choice. A no-name from one of the middle districts.

No. Rather than watch his son closely, the King examined her. His eyes narrowed sharply. “If that is indeed the case… Monica?” She half-bowed. “Ah. I presume, then, that it was a misunderstanding that resulted in this.” He waved his son at his son’s face.

Supplication did not come naturally to her. Monica nodded without apology. It _had_ been a misunderstanding, and if she had to bear the blame for it—she would. “One moment I was in the castle. The next, I was outside with the Prince. I have never heard of such a thing.” She considered telling the King about the exact circumstances, but if he did not ask surely the Prince should be allowed some sense of privacy.

She couldn’t hold herself still. Hands opening and closing. Knee rhythmically bobbing. Did the boy ever stop? Where did he find so much energy?

“I see. And what have you to say on the matter at hand?” The King turned his attention to Prompto.

“What, you’re asking me? I seriously have like, no idea. One second, Noct and me are—talking. Wer’re talking and then—blammo! Suddenly I have the worst cold of my life and I’m inside and actual Cor is talking to me? It was so totally nuts!”

The Prince said, sounding a little strangled, “It’s definitely Prom, dad. What do we do? How do we fix this?”

 

Prompto fidgeted.He used her face so animatedly. It had to be equally unsettling for him to watch Monica keep his countenance even. “Um—so I don’t know what’s going on, or how any of this happened—it’s probably _my_ fault, though.”

Why he would assume that when even the King himself was baffled, she couldn’t fathom. She shook her head. “No. The King believes we shall soon be made right. In the meantime, we should decide a course. Plainly, I believe it unwise for you to try and complete my Crownsguard duties.”

He didn’t have the clearance, to start. He barely had enough to be friends with the Prince. “How are you so calm about this?” Her own cough-roughened voice, lifted with an admiration she couldn’t remember hearing in herself. “But. Yeah. Totally. And maybe you should call in to work and school for me? Somebody might notice something, y’know?”

“That may be for the best. What of your parents?”

Prompto turned from her, but not before she caught him chewing her lips. They were sure to chap if he kept at it. “You probably won’t see much of them. They both work and stuff. So. Don’t worry about them. Just tell them you’re sick, and they’ll buy it. And if they don’t know about any of this… That’s probably better, anyway.” She could hear the strain in her own voice, but kept herself from pursuing the subject. She could look into it later if it proved pertinent.

However, this meant that she would have to stay in his lodgings. Otherwise someone would surely question why a minor was coming and going from her quarters.Prompto pulled her face into an exaggerated frown. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me… ever. And I’m friends with Noct.”

Easier not to air her suspicions about his relationship with Noctis. “I have three cats. If you could, I would appreciate if you could look after them.”

“Cats? Oh man, _of course_ I’ll take care of your cats! No big! So… uh. I’ll stay at your place, you’ll stay at mine?” That little pinch in the corner of the mouth that was more familiar than not.

He looked unhappy enough she paused. No. There would be too many questions if they remained in their own homes. They would have to swap. “I’m sorry,” she offered.

Color crept up his (her) cheeks. “It’s just, well. My place isn’t anything special. So don’t be surprised.”

“It would take a lot.” She meant it kindly, but he avoided eye contact regardless.

 

The Prince barely met her eyes as the apology tumbled out, followed by a sharp, practiced laugh of “just guy stuff.” Monica accepted it with a nod. If she could afford the boy whose picture adorned most of the magazines some measure of privacy, she would.

She followed him to through the ever-bright streets of Insomnia until they reached one of the middle districts. The Prince stopped at the gate, gaze focused on the house beyond. It was all neat lines, but the garden seemed uncared for. “Prompto doesn’t really invite me in. But, I’ll take you to the door at least. Uh—his parents work a lot, so you probably won’t see that much of them. So don’t worry about them finding anything out.” One small comfort.

A lesser boy would have taken the opportunity presented. Would have pressed into all the spaces denied before. Fondly, she regretted her strike for his sake, rather than her own.

Monica let herself in as the Prince watched. His expression softer than she’d ever seen. His visage so often set in assumed displeasure. How many times had he watched this retreating back? The house was neater than she expected. Either by Prompto’s hand or his family’s. Perhaps she had assumed a mess because Prompto himself seemed a mess. Very clean, but sparse. Empty and unlived in, like her own home when she had first come to the city. Her days spent on the bright Insomnian streets as she practiced forgetting what the locals wouldn’t let her forget.

She promised herself she wouldn’t sift through the house, but she could dig through what was plain to see. The books for school. The lists hung up on the fridge. The pictures taped up in the mirror, an easy sequence to follow. A sticky note attached to the most recent chronicle: _Good job, honey. We’re proud of you!_ It seemed Prompto had worked hard to enact a change. (Monica knew it. The hours she spent changing her voice when she got here. Shifting her words to the local ones. Surrounding herself with the technology she could have only dreamed of at home. How to belong. Still, it never could stick well enough. Once an outlander, always an outlander.)

Monica came to the first picture. Young boy, heavier than acceptable, unhappy looking. She traced the journey until the most recent, adorned with the note. Tiny waif of a thing with slicked up hair. Smiling. Since he kept the markers up, seemed like it was something he was still working on or proud of. Likely both.

A walkthrough of the house only gave lip-service to parents. A second bedroom with a made bed and no personalization apart from the clothes in the closet. The rest of the house was covered in photographs, some framed, some not. Usually the city. Often the Prince. Occasionally the most recent version of Prompto. With great effort, she kept herself from going through the drawers. He had given her no acceptable reason to search through his things. Mere curiosity could not merit a warrant.

Instead, she inspected the contents of the fridge. Half-surprised to find it comprised almost entirely of fruits and vegetables. A salad, then, because she intended no unkindness and he appeared weight-conscious. Indeed, she could only eat half her salad. A stomach ache, from so light a meal.

It was not her way to leave unanswered questions. But she wouldn’t pry. Perhaps a shower would clear her head.

 

Monica went into intelligence partly because she was nosy. Served her well, before joining the Guard. Served even more after, in the dragged out half-war.

Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that even with her best intentions, she couldn’t stop herself. This kid who had emerged seemingly out of air to make fast friends (and then some) with the Prince… it rang of convenience. If there was one thing she had learned, it was that a hidden cost was often steeper than a plain one.

It was easy to pry. When she unclothed to shower, she meticulously kept her gaze from anything that should cause her arrest. But she noticed the tattoo on his wrist. A set of bars, raised slightly, and a sequence of numbers that she doubted was random. A crisscross of old scars over it, like a failed attempt at carving it away.

She felt the urge to comfort, without the capacity to enact it. Monica stroked fingers over the raised skin—instead of comfort, a full body flinch. Recoiling. As though it was her—his?—hand that caused the harm. Gooseflesh rose up, and that sicktoofull feeling that had been dissipating returned with all the precision of an MT sniper. What in the Six? Monica staggered into the shower. Hot water beat down on the skin but she still couldn’t breathe. She cranked the water up higher even as the trembling started.

Monica kept under the spray until the skin flamed red. Evidently the mark didn’t house pleasant memories. Was he part of a gang? She hadn’t heard of any gang in Insomnia with that type of call sign. Monica toweled off quickly, hands fumbling over so simple a task. Her own curiosity sharp as the body responded to memory she didn’t share. Heart racing. Neurons firing. None of it under her control. Even within the skin, control was only skin deep. You could walk in a person’s skin, and still know nothing of the person.

If she thought that sleep would offer a reprieve, it was perhaps more hope than folly.

 

_Disjointed, lumbering shadows, offset by lights brighter than the ones outside Insomnia. Heavy scrape of metal. Far-off wailing. Metal mazes and growling in the distance._

_Morphed into the disjointed, purposeful synchronous movement of MTs. Those burning, hollow eyes. The uncanny face mask. That spread of blood when an axe or a bullet met its mark. Her sector was burning. Screams flew up with the smoke. She had to find a way to—Had to find a way out._

 

Monica woke with sweat and tears dripping. What in the Six…? The dreams of MTs were familiar, strong old memories that withstood the yellowing passage of time, in the way the memory of her mother’s face didn’t. But the shadows. The lights. That had been new, and certainly not hers.

Some instinct gripped her. She dug shorn fingernails into the raised skin of the tattoo. That soft bite of pain allowed her to breathe again. When Cor had forced her to see the Soother, he’d said in that particular cutting way of his, “The body remembers. It must be trained to make peace, even a false peace. You mustn’t fall into the complacency that what you do in the Guard is divorced from all you have seen.” As though she hadn’t joined the Guard _because_ of what she had seen.

The Soother had been a doddering old man with spectacles bigger than Amicitia’s shield. The type of man who was an expert even on topics he had never given to thought to before the moment he chose to spread his knowledge.

An (Un)exhaustive List of Things He Knew:

1\. Her past

2\. Her feelings about her past

3\. Her present

4\. Her current feelings (including her dislike of him)

5\. How the weather would be tomorrow

6\. How the political climate of Insomnia would shape a peaceful future

7\. Whether the King would be feeling well

8\. How far her sword could be shoved up his ass

But he’d droned on and on about _trauma_ and how it lingered in all aspects of a person, until she couldn’t physically _or_ mentally _or_ spiritually stand to hear one more word from his wide frog lips. Monica had convinced Amicitia to sign off on her papers in an almost desperate bid for freedom. She’d had enough men telling her how the future would go and how she should feel. Clarus Amicitia had simply shrugged. “You have the tools. What you do with them is up to you.”

Perhaps what Prompto needed was a Soother who thought he knew everything. Just because it hadn’t worked for her, didn’t mean it wouldn’t help Prompto.

This was not shaping up how she thought it would. Though, she couldn’t think of a protocol or expectation for switching bodies with a teenage boy.

Curiosity warred with the boy’s right to privacy. But concern came, too. Somehow. The boy’s memories of the metal bright place—it reminded her of the MTs, a disconcerting connection she couldn’t shake. The raised scars over the tattoo. What ugly truth was hidden in his memories? What had he hidden from the Prince?

Stomach twisted at the thought. She couldn’t pinpoint if it was her own reaction, or the body’s. Or perhaps it was simply the twist of the food from earlier, settling unhappily.

 

Monica called in for him. The teacher asked no questions and was not surprised that Prompto was calling instead of his parents. “Perhaps the Prince can get your assignments for you.” In comparison, his boss sounded bored. “We didn’t really need you today, anyway.”

No other messages. No one, not even his parents, stopped by.

  

It took her longer than she would have liked to make it to the Palace.

Her breakfast of toast and jam settled badly. Halfway through the second piece of toast, she _heaved_ though nothing came up. Monica glanced over at the spread of progress pictures again. It went against everything she had learned as a child and a hungry young adult to waste food. But she couldn’t stomach it. (Did the Prince know about this? Surely not.)

The rain had returned. Prompto’s lace-ups couldn’t catch at all, so she stumbled more than walked on his fawn legs. Nothing looked up when she arrived at the Palace. Gladiolus eyed her as she entered. “Didn’t think you normally came ‘round here. Shouldn’t you be at school with Noct, anyway?” More curious that suspicious. He was growing up like his dad.

Obviously he hadn’t been informed. Time to play along. “Um. Sorry? I needed—I’m looking for Cor. Have you seen him?”

His bent to straighten his shirt that stretched over his form. It put him nearly eye level with Prompto, letting him examine him more closely. Perhaps she hadn’t gotten the speech pattern quite right. “Training room. What d’you need to see _Cor_ about, anyway? He know you’re comin’?”

“Um—yeah! Totally! Something about like, training or some shit?”

Gladiolus’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, mouth slanting down. “Don’t know when you started actin’ tough, but don’t do it in the Palace.”

Maybe she was laying it on too thick. She nodded her head and ducked off toward the training rooms, heart thundering with anxiety. Prompto was so _twitchy_ —how did he stand it?

 

“Even given a proper weapon and years of muscle memory, you can’t use it.” Cor’s disapproval sharp as ever. Monica could envision that derisive curl of his mouth. “What, exactly, will you do if someone comes for the Prince?”

“He’s got Gladio! And Iggy! He doesn’t—I’m not—“ Her own voice wavered, that telltale tremble she’d spent years training herself out of.

She’d been a nervous kid.All bruised knees and downcast eyes. It wasn’t till she hit high school that she learned to look things head on. A scrap with a boy three years older, who’d taken a liking to her best friend. Hadn’t happened overnight, but eventually she hadn’t been able to look down again. Always face on. Attack the problem head on. Adaptable spirit, or something near it. (And she hadn’t learned fear again until Insomnia.)

That heavy sound of wood against flesh. A short keen. Her own hurt voice. Prompto’s body flinched for his hurt. “The Prince chose you against all advice to the contrary. Not from me. But certainly from others. Including Ignis. After everything, it’s imperative that you prove—“

“I can’t!” Her voice sounded wet. Prompto’s throat burned in sympathy. Or perhaps it was her own sympathetic streak, enacting itself upon the body. “I can’t prove what I’m not! I never could! I’m not—I’m not anything. I could never measure up to—“

“So better not to try? Is that what I—“

Cor knew more than he let on. It was true about most things. Not much escaped him. How did he know? What did he know? Monica had wondered about the lack of security meetings on the Prince’s friend. Officially, it had been to “afford some sense of autonomy to the future ruler of Lucis,” but in retrospect there was no need for a meeting if Cor already knew.

Again, the distinct sound of wood against flesh. Monica considered that Cor was downright _invested_ in the kid. It wasn’t, after all, the first time time he’d worked out his concern on her skin. Simply the first time that concern wasn’t for her.

Prompto whimpered, a soft and broken bird sound she didn’t know her body could make. Monica took a step to intervene when her own raw voice stopped her. “I can’t live up to that, either. I’ve tried. I’ve _tried_. But I’m not—there’s nothing, nothing about that… If it had been somebody else—somebody else here instead of me, maybe they could’ve been, but I’m just not. There’s no proving myself, no paying you back. It’s just—I’m just—I’m—“

The practice sword hit the training mat with force enough that Prompto fell silent. “With that attitude, you won’t ever be more than you are now.” Cor’s voice dropped, gravelly and almost comforting. “You can only try. Even if you can’t pay it back, even if you can’t prove yourself—better to try. It’s all you can do. That’s all I’d want from you.”

Silence in the training room. Monica entered the room to find her body face down on the floor and Cor’s hand on her back. “I think that’s enough. It seems as though you have been here for too long.”

Prompto startled, tear still streaking down on her face. He sat up and Cor removed his hand. “I’m—sorry—you might have some—some bruises. I really—“

“I’ll hold Cor responsible, not you.” She tried to smile reassuringly for the boy in her skin, but she locked eyes with Cor instead. “I see that he’s been informed of our predicament.”

Without shame, Cor held out a hand to pull Prompto up, which Prompto took. “Just friendly training. You and I were scheduled for it today. I didn’t want the Guard questioning why I’m going easy on you.” More of an excuse than he typically offered.

“I see. Please go shower, Prompto. And no tomfoolery.” The kid’s voice rasped on the commands, but Monica still got to see her own face color at the implication. Before he could babble that he would _never_ take advantage, she turned pointedly to Cor. “A word, if you’ll indulge me.”

Prompto bolted from the room. Cor watched Prompto leave before turning to Monica. “I was too hard on him, it seems.” A heavy pause. “I assume you came to find me because you either have answers or are looking for them.” As ever, no one could hit her on the head quite like Cor could.

“Both, it would seem. I didn’t realize you had history with the boy.”

His eyes shut as he gathered himself. Cor had always been a hard man to read. Not given to showing his emotions. But if Monica had to guess, and she made a living making educated guesses, she’d say he was tired. Something weighing him down. “I brought him here from the Empire when he was very young. I’ve kept something of an eye on him. For obvious reasons, I could not offer myself as caregiver.”

“Would you have wanted to?” The question escaped her.

Cor was silent long enough she presumed he wouldn’t answer. It was a loaded question after all. But finally, voice gruff, he admitted, “Likely not. That was never the life for me.”

An ugly truth, but truth all the same. It was the currency she’d dealt in every day. People like her and Cor had no time of illusions. Still, she ached—either for Cor or Prompto. Mayhap both. “The Empire, then. Does it have something to do with this?” She lifted the covered wrist.

He sighed at the sight of it. “He had it when we found him. We never found out its purpose, but it hasn’t harmed him.”

Except for when Prompto tried to cut it away. She wouldn’t tell Cor. The kid deserved a little privacy after all. “I’ve done a little digging, but if you’re confident in him, then—“

“I am. Let the boy be, Monica. Whatever fate awaited him in the Empire, I don’t relish it. He’s done well for himself here, even if his path isn’t the easiest.” She knew how the people here felt about immigrants. The looks when she had first arrived wearing the wrong clothes and gawking at the wrong things. Prompto wasn’t even from Lucis—if anyone found out, it could cause trouble for him. Cor rubbed a hand over his face. “I would appreciate it if you write your reports for my eyes only. If you’re so inclined to pry, I wouldn’t say no to your findings.”

Again his concern for the boy. “I will do as you ask.”

“Then I must attend other matters. I’ve lingered here too long.” Then he was gone.

Monica felt heavy, like all the knowledge she had weighed a veritable ton. The eating. The Empire. The thin spread of the Guard. The unfortunate outlands. There were so many things that, once you knew them, lingered beneath skin and thought. This body knew it as hers did.

In the doorway, her own face peered at her. Eyes still wet. The heaviness threatened to consume her. “Sorry. I left—I left your phone in the—“ He shuffled back into the room.

“Then you have heard everything.”

“I didn’t mean to sneak around! It just—sort of happened.”

Monica sighed. Part of collecting ugly truths was knowing when to spare others from it. She would have spared him this. “Cor—“

“I know.” A wan smile. “I know. I understand. I think I always did. Besides… my parents are…” She didn’t miss the hesitation. “Great. They’re really great. But… you know about the—“ He pointed at the covered wrist, eyes pinched in the corners.

“The tattoo.” She moved instinctively to cover the bandana.

“I’ve had it as long as I can remember.” He looked away from her. “Cor says I had it when they found me. Don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but it won’t come off. Tattoo removal and things like that don’t work.”

Even taking a knife to it hadn’t helped. “I was skeptical of you at first.” To put it gently. One didn’t get chosen for intelligence work because they were trusting. “You might yet prove a good friend to the Prince.”

The smile she earned was nearly blinding in how disorienting it was. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled like that. Monica could hardly bare it. Coming to Insomnia had not been the cure-all she had dreamed of as a child, the way that nearly all outland children did. Dreaming of the safety of the Wall. “You should heed Cor more. With the current situation, it might come to you to defend the Prince.”

The Empire grew ever bolder. She could feel the lurch of the MTs and even she knew enough of the Glaive to know that when she had go so long without seeing them it wasn’t a good sign. Monica could hardly imagine MTs in the Crown City, but she felt somehow that everyone would have to step up in the coming days. Even those untrained had something to offer.

Monica had seen it before.

(Months later, she had stood in her outland city. Stood in the spread of ash and crumbled buildings. With a little more preparation, perhaps they could have— The Soother had told her those thoughts were not helpful. That they served only to drag her into the past where her choices now could not change. Still, she couldn’t stop her mind from traversing the well-known pain paths. )

Before Prompto could speak of his own worthlessness, she asked, “How are my cats?”

Given a safe topic, the boy could talk and talk and talk. He talked for a long time about how cute her cats were, how friendly, how fat—You must really spoil them! Monica let the words slide over her like gentle rain, her own voice surprisingly soothing despite the animation with which he spoke. “Best go take care of them. I suppose I know who to call if I need a cat-sitter.” Perhaps it was the only kindness she had to offer.

That brilliant smile. She matched it as she urged him to leave the training room.

 

Monica only tripped once on her way to the study. The King was settled in a worn armchair, frowning at the Cosmogony book in his hands. He looked up when she entered. “Ah. Monica.” He seemed to be adjusting to this better than she was. Then, it _was_ the King. Not much seemed to phase him. “I assume you have questions.”

Everyone knew about her relentless pursuit of knowledge now. Still, she could feel the flush climb up the boy’s face. “Yes, your Majesty.”

He nodded at her to continue. Monica sat down across from him, leg jittering. “I was curious if you had a hypothesis concerning why this happened, your Majesty.”

“I do, in fact.” The King stroked fingers over his rapidly greying beard. “A Messenger appeared to Noctis. She suggested that there is divinity in this.”

“Divinity?” The idea of that was less appealing than the Empire. The Astrals and magic and crystals were the lot of Kings and Oracles. Not of Crownsguard or refugees.

The King stood with great effort. His knee groaned as he stood, but he stayed impassive. He crossed to the window, to look back over the gardens. “Indeed. A strange affair for them to concern themselves. Noctis asked Gentiana, but she merely said that some bonds must be formed before they’re needed. It is exactly that type of clarity I would expect.” Monica couldn’t say she had any idea about what that meant. Instead, she watched the King drum his fingers on the sill. “I theorize that soon you’ll be returned.”

She’d never been one for deference. But this was the first time she’d spent any real time alone with the King. A soft radiation of power that both comforted her and filled her with dread. Power came at cost and often not to the bearer. “As I’m sure you’ve gathered, there is much you have in common with young Prompto. Perhaps you’re intended to form bonds based upon that. But why that should concern them—“ He broke off, fingers stilling on the sill.

Monica sighed. “That seems beneath the notice of even mortals, Majesty.”

“I have to agree. However, Gods tend to involve themselves in affairs that we mortals would overlook, otherwise.” If the King thought it a comfort, he was not as wise as they said.

The King turned abruptly to face her. “Monica. I am aware that perhaps the similarities you bear with Prompto are difficult. Are you well?”

“Well enough, your Majesty.”

He examined her. In this body, she felt smaller. More feeble. Especially in the face of his sudden scrutiny. “No more difficult than meetings on the outer cities, I presume.” He smiled wryly as she turned her gaze. “You are not so discreet. I would offer my apologies that we cannot do more for them, but—“

Monica shook her head. “We all understand. After all, the Wall can extend only so far.” The King was spread so thin already, and magick offered only so much against technological might.

“It is unfortunate,” the King agreed, and she thought it was relief that cleared his face.

A chill spread over her borrowed skin. She looked away. Had she intended validation? The cold, clammy feeling twisted sickly in her stomach. Monica had to leave this place. She bowed stiffly, in a body as unused to it as her own. “Thank you for your time, Majesty. If you have no more need of me—“

He nodded his assent. Monica couldn’t leave fast enough, hands shaking.

Unfortunate. Unfortunate when those sworn to protect couldn’t protect. Unfortunate, when the promise of protection extended as far as mortal limitation. When all those hurts kept adding up and adding and no amount of soothing could heal the damage done. The body remembered. The soul remembered. She could still taste the MT ash. Could feel the sting of a needle at the wrist.

That the King would use her to assuage his own guilt was ultimately unsurprising and unfortunate. None of them could escape this war.

 

Still no sign of the kid’s parents. Monica laid out on the couch to watch the ceiling. Creating bonds before they were needed? Perhaps the bonding part should have worried her more given the way that Prompto’s story reflected hers, but it was the before part that concerned her. For there to be a before, it meant something had to happen after.

Monica wasn’t foolish enough that she couldn’t see that the taut string of this war was close to snapping. It had to concern the war. But how such a thing would require a bond between herself and Prompto, she couldn’t say.

Even worse than the inevitable future was the interference of a Messenger. A Messenger of the Gods messing with her and some kid? They were only supposed to show themselves to the Oracle, or at least so Monica thought. Perhaps they had become weary of playing lapdog to the Empire.

(An unkind thought turned to the Lady Lunafreya, but Monica knew a political play when she saw one. The Oracle’s long imprisonment and use by the Empire was nothing but politics. Unfortunate that the girl got wrapped up in it, but all of them had to play their parts.)

Or perhaps the connection between Oracle and Prince? Prince and Crystal? All of this was beyond her. The magick had never been in her. It was why she was Guard instead of Glaive.

Monica could see no machination, future or otherwise, that necessitated her connection to the boy. A similar migration could not be the only reason. Nor could a shared love of cats. If divine hand caused this, she could see no purpose to it. If she had developed fond feelings for the boy, that hardly seemed the affair of the Six.

This was the part she hated most. Where she had just enough intel to chase herself in circles, but not enough to break the cycle. Just as she thought she might retire for the evening, a voice broke through her thoughts—“Prom? You listenin’ or what?”

She startled. The Prince. Monica looked over at the Prince, and then down at herself. “Take another guess, Prince Noctis.”

The Prince stopped beside her. They were outside the Palace again. Sometime ago, the sun had set and they were standing underneath the bright lights. “Monica? It’s really you this time? You’re not going to punch me?”

“Only if you intend on earning it.”

She could feel the ache of training with Cor, familiar and comfortable in its own way. Certainly more familiar than the skin she had inhabited the past day. Monica ran her own hands over the curve of her hips. She felt her smooth wrist. Took a breath and then pushed it all out in one long exhale. It was easy as returning home. “It’s good to be back, I must admit. We should ensure that Prompto is all right.”

The Prince could only nod, following after her quick enough she could read the eagerness in his step. They didn’t have far to go. Prompto darted across the street toward the Palace. “Noct!” He took a flying leap at the Prince, who caught him as though he had been expecting it. Monica let herself smile as the two boys hugged tightly.

“Oh! Monica!” Prompto pulled back. “Uh… sorry again about the bruises.”

She waved it off. “I would have earned them myself. I hope that I left everything to your satisfaction.”

“Yeah. No problems… Uh. Your cats should be fine? Honestly, they’re the cutest. They’re the best. I just—can I be honest? I really love your cats. And I was. Um. I was wondering if maybe I could—if I could maybe come over and see your cats sometimes? I felt like we _bonded_ , you know? Even though they thought I was you? And I’d like to for real meet them, you know? To see if they really do like me.“

Bonds. Forming bonds. Her mouth turned downward, but she nodded slowly. “Yes. Of course. And Cor was not wrong. You could use more training. If… if you like, I could be the one to train you.”

Prompto turned his bright bright smile on her, even as the Prince furrowed his brows in confusion but smiled too. “I’d like that,” Prompto said, “Well, anyway, I’ll do my best! Thanks, Monica!”

Monica wasn’t sure that he should thank her, but she found that fond tug in her chest. “I wouldn’t expect any less.” And found it was surprisingly true.

If the Gods wanted them to bond, perhaps she could try.


End file.
